


let me know that you love me, let that be enough

by notfirewoodyet



Category: The Amazing Spider-Man (Movies - Webb)
Genre: Angst, Established Relationship, M/M, Spider-Man causes problems of the relationship variety
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-21
Updated: 2014-06-21
Packaged: 2018-02-05 12:52:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,030
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1819147
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notfirewoodyet/pseuds/notfirewoodyet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry thinks he should be used to Peter’s disappearing act by now.  They’ve been together for four years, ever since they were seventeen-years-old, and Harry’s known that Peter is Spider-Man for a little bit longer.  But, it just seemed like the older they got, the more difficult it was becoming to deal with.</p>
            </blockquote>





	let me know that you love me, let that be enough

**Author's Note:**

> I really do start these stories thinking I'm going to write 3k-4k, but then it just spirals. Enjoy!

“Well, how about that? Peter Parker is wearing something that can actually be considered fashionable,” Harry teases as Peter comes out of their bedroom fidgeting with his dress shirt.

“Oh please. Not all of us consider an Armani suit to be casual attire,” Peter says, leveling Harry with a playful glare. Harry just rolls his eyes and smoothes his hand down Peter’s slightly crooked tie.

“Let’s see. Shined shoes, excellently tailored pants,” Harry says, giving Peter an overly exaggerated wink, “and your hair actually looks controlled. I must say, well done, Peter, but you’re gonna have to eighty-six the rolled-up sleeves.”

“Yeah, hell no, Osborn. I’m already wearing an outfit that costs more than Aunt May’s house. So, the least you can give me is rolled-up sleeves.”

“Fine,” Harry huffs, but he doesn’t mind losing this battle. Peter looks unbelievable.

“Alright, so I know this new restaurant we’re going to isn’t your scene, but please try not to scoff at everything on the menu,” Harry says, swinging on his suit jacket. Unlike Peter, he will look completely presentable.

“Sorry, Osborn. I guess my palette never got accustomed to dining on elegant cuisine.”

“Peter.”

“I’m joking, Harry,” Peter smirks, pulling Harry towards him and wrapping his long arms securely around his waist. “I promise not to scoff at the menu, and I’ll pretend that everything isn’t ridiculously overpriced.”

“Thanks for your sacrifice,” Harry snorts, burying his face in Peter’s neck.

The truth was both Harry and Peter were excited for tonight’s date. Harry had wanted them to go to this restaurant for more than a month now, and both of them had been trying to go on a proper date for more than two months. It was hard to go to a movie on Friday night when you’re boyfriend happened to be a web-slinging superhero, who took on the responsibility of protecting the entire population of New York City.

“You look great, by the way,” Harry whispers, yanking on Peter’s tie to pull him down for a kiss. 

“Well,” Peter murmurs, after Harry lets him up for air, “if I knew wearing a tie would get you this hot and bothered, I would have done it more often.”

“I’m sure we can find some very interesting uses for this tie, Pete,” Harry says, dragging his mouth along Peter’s jaw. Peter just laughs and rakes a hand through Harry’s hair. Harry doesn’t even care that he’s messing it up.

“Nope, I don’t think so,” Peter says when Harry starts to undo the tie and top button of his shirt. “If we don’t leave now, we never will.”

“Fine,” Harry huffs again, stepping away from Peter to fix his own rumpled clothing. Peter chucks Harry’s chin, and gently directs him towards his cell phone so Harry could call the driver to the front gate.

“Alright, we can head down now,” Harry says, pocketing his phone. He turns around, and Peter’s doing the same with his cell, only he looks a bit nervous.

“Har-,” Peter beings to say, but Harry interrupts him.

“Fuck, Peter, seriously? What is it this time?”

“Hostage situation at a store down on 5th.”

“Why can’t you let the police handle it? They’re not as incompetent as they look, you know?” Harry barks, glaring at Peter with his hands on his waist.

“They’ve been negotiating with this guy for almost an hour, Harry. They think he’s wired the building with explosives. I have to go,” Peter mumbles, reaching out a hand to grasp Harry’s, but Harry steps back. Peter looks like a kicked puppy now. Harry knows Peter doesn’t do these things on purpose. He’s not breaking another date just for the hell of it, but he’d by lying if he said he wasn’t getting a little bit tired of all the excuses.

“Harry, please. You understand don’t you?” Peter is begging Harry not to be angry with him. He’s trying to catch his gaze in an attempt to make him understand why he needs to do this.

“Sure, Pete,” Harry murmurs, throwing his suit jacket on the nearest couch and undoing his cuff links.

“Har-”

“Just go, Peter!” Harry yells, tugging harshly on his silk tie.

“Okay,” Peter whispers, bowing his head and running a hand roughly down his face. Harry leans against his desk with his arms crossed, and he determinedly refuses to look at Peter. He doesn’t want to have to see him strip down to his suit, slipping on that mask for the thousandth time, and fly out the window. Harry hears Peter shuffle towards the window, and he can see from the corner of his eye that Peter keeps whipping his head towards Harry’s direction, hoping to make eye contact.

“Wait,” Harry says, halting Peter before he jumps out onto the balcony. “Be careful, alright?” Harry whispers, looking away from Peter once more.

He hears Peter swing off into the night, and he pinches the bridge of his nose. No matter how angry Harry gets at Peter sometimes, he never wants him to run off without him knowing Harry loves him, and that he wants him home in one piece.

Harry thinks he should be used to Peter’s disappearing act by now. They’ve been together for four years, ever since they were seventeen-years-old, and Harry’s known that Peter is Spider-Man for a little bit longer. But, it just seemed like the older they got, the more difficult it was becoming to deal with. They barely got to see each other anymore between Peter’s classes and being New York City’s most reliable wall-crawler, and Harry constantly running in and out of board meetings all because he was trying to successfully run a multi-billion dollar corporation at the age of 20. So, whenever they did get to spend time together, he would appreciate it if Peter actually made an effort to, you know, spend time with him.

Harry calls his driver to let him know he and Peter wouldn’t be needing his assistance tonight after all, and he almost sounds sympathetic when he tells Harry to have a good night. Harry unbuttons his shirt, revealing his muscle shirt underneath, and kicks off his shoes. 

He sits down on the over-sized leather couch in his living room and pours himself a glass of scotch. And this? This he’s used to. He knows this routine well. Peter leaves, Harry drinks, and he waits for Peter to return, sometimes looking like he just came back from a leisurely walk in the park, and sometimes looking like he repeatedly got run over by a tractor.

It’s 2 a.m. when Peter comes gliding through the open window, and Harry wakes with a start from where he had dozed off on the couch. He rubs his eyes and walks over to Peter, preparing himself for the damage he may or may not see. It doesn’t look too bad. Peter has a gash running along his jaw, a smattering of cuts along his forehead and nose, and a bruise is already starting to form on the side of Peter’s neck. Nothing Harry can’t fix.

Harry grasps Peter’s wrist, leading him towards the bathroom and sitting him down on the toilet seat. Peter doesn’t say anything as they walk, he doesn’t say anything when Harry gets one of the many first-aid kits they have stuffed under the sink and starts pulling out supplies, and he doesn’t say anything when Harry starts to dab at the cuts above his eye with some ointment.

“So, is everyone okay?” Harry asks, breaking the uncomfortable silence that had settled over them.

“Yeah,” Peter exhales shakily. “Everyone’s alright. It took some negotiating and bargaining and all that fun stuff, but the guy finally let everyone go.”

“That’s good,” Harry says, dabbing at the cut along Peter’s jaw with alcohol-filled gauze.

“I’m so sorry,” Peter whispers, looking up at him with glistening eyes. Harry drops his hand from where he was dabbing at Peter’s face, and Peter takes the opportunity to softly run his hands up and down Harry’s sides.

“I can’t even imagine how frustrating this is for you,” Peter continues. “I know we haven’t spent a lot of time together lately, and I know a lot of that is because of me, but I just-, I just feel like-, I have-”

“I know, Peter,” Harry says, settling his hands on Peter’s shoulders. “If someone is in danger, you’re going to help them. I understand. Believe me.” Harry brushes his thumb gently against the bruise on Peter’s neck, and he feels him shiver beneath the touch.

“You know how much I love you, right?” Peter asks, nudging Harry closer. “I need you to know that.”

“I know, Pete,” Harry reassures, leaning down to place a soft kiss on Peter’s forehead. Peter buries his face in Harry’s chest, and Harry tangles his fingers in Peter’s hair. They both sigh in unison, releasing the tension they had been feeling for the past six hours. 

“I know, Pete,” Harry repeats, leaving gentle kisses along Peter’s head.

\----------

Harry’s head is pounding, and he doesn’t know which bottle of alcohol to reach for first, so he goes for a mixture of everything in the cabinet. First of all, the board was on the warpath again, attempting to get him booted from his place as CEO. Then, he was kindly alerted to the fact that negotiations with a prominent research institute in Seattle had fallen through, significantly setting back Oscrop’s progress on their next big project. He thought a nice walk through Central Park during his lunch break would relax him a bit, but then he almost got mowed down by a couple of overzealous cyclists. To top his fabulous day off, he somehow managed to crack the face of his $5,000 watch while he was getting into the car that was taking him back to the mansion at the end of the day.

He might be able to deal with his epically shitty day if it wasn’t the tail-end to a fucking terrible week. He doesn’t even have the energy to keep moving, so he plops himself down, face first, onto the couch. Harry takes the half-full glass of his poor excuse for a cocktail, and chugs the rest of it in one gulp. Alcohol is dribbling down his chin, but fuck it, he’s not sitting up, or even turning over.

After about 15 minutes of inhaling the scent of leather, Harry reluctantly gets up, cracking every bone in his body in the process. Geez, he’s 20 going on 60 at this point. He would kill for a long, hot shower right now, but he doesn’t want to take it alone.

“Peter,” Harry shouts, wondering if he had passed out in their bedroom due to the fact that it was nearing 1 o’clock in the morning.

Harry opens the door to the bedroom, but there’s no sign of Peter. He goes down to the kitchen and the living room on the second floor, which Peter favors for some reason, but he’s not in any of those spots. 

“Fuck,” Harry says, smacking his forehead in the process. There’s one place he should have known to check first. He scurries back up to the bedroom and rummages around in the small chest they keep stashed away in the back of their closet. The Spider-Man suit is gone. Harry should have known Peter wasn’t here. He never is anymore.

Harry has come home every day this week even more beaten down than the day before, and Peter hasn’t been there a single time. Peter would get home when Harry was already asleep and too exhausted to even notice when Peter slipped into bed, and by the time Harry would wake up, Peter would already be on the subway headed towards Columbia. If Harry was running on empty, he could only imagine how Peter was faring. 

Harry tries, he really does, but in the end he’s had one of the worst weeks of his life, and he’s so fucking furious at Peter for not being there for him. Peter bends over backwards to be there for every stranger residing in the five boroughs, but he can’t do the same for the person he’s supposed to love. Harry’s beginning to think the only way he’ll even get to see Peter anymore is by deliberately putting himself in danger, and how fucked up is that?

His headache has morphed into a splitting migraine, and he just can’t deal with the mess of his head right now. He takes some aspirin, chasing it down with whiskey, which Harry knows is a horrible idea but it’s the closest liquid thing within his reach, and he promptly passes out in the middle of their king-sized bed. He hopes Peter gets the hint that Harry would very much appreciate it if he slept on the couch, and he doesn’t try to scoot Harry over to his usual side because he’ll probably punch Peter in the face. 

\----------

The sunlight is blinding, and Harry curses his curtains for daring to let those death rays shine through. He’s hungover of course, thanks to the twelve different kinds of alcohol he consumed, but on the plus side his splitting migraine has reverted back to a mildly annoying headache. He’s taking his victories where he can get them at this point.

After chugging a glass of water in the bathroom, Harry slowly makes his way into the living room on shaky legs. Unsurprisingly, Harry didn’t hear Peter get home last night, but he spots a rumpled up blanket on the couch, so he guesses Peter got a few hours of sleep before he swung off again. Looks like Peter got the hint, or he just collapsed on the first comfortable surface he saw.

Harry thanks his lucky stars it’s Saturday, and he can satisfy his desperate need for coffee at the closest Starbucks. Contrary to popular belief, Harry doesn’t like to have everything done for him, and his coffee run is something he’d like to do for himself today.

He orders a venti latte, and sits down at a table to check his emails. He definitely knows that a venti latte will not be enough to appease his massive hangover, so he’s staying put. While he’s in the middle of scrolling through his phone, he feels, rather than sees, someone sit down in the chair opposite him.

“Watch it, buddy,” Harry says without bothering to look up from his phone and righting the table to its original place before this person barreled into it.

“Sorry, didn’t mean to disturb your delicate sensibilities,” the stranger quips back, and who the hell is this guy, and doesn’t he know who Harry is?

“Yeah, well most people can sit down in a chair without tackling the table first.”

“I guess you could say I’m not most people then,” the guy says, winking at Harry when he finally looks up and smirks over the top of his coffee cup.

“Guess not,” Harry mumbles, and woah, this guy is gorgeous. He has neatly-trimmed dark hair, green eyes, and perfectly tanned skin, which Harry envies because his own pale skin will burn with more than ten minutes of sun exposure. The guy smirks again, leaning back in his chair with a confidence that Harry would say is bordering on arrogant if he weren’t basically drooling right now.

“So, rough night?” the guy asks, and Harry scrunches his eyebrows in confusion.

“Why do you ask?”

“It just seems like you had a rough night is all. Your eyes are bloodshot, your hands look a little shaky, and the bags under your eyes make it look like you haven’t slept in more than a month.”

“Thanks for the compliment,” Harry snorts, rubbing his fingers over his temples.

“I’m just saying the venti-sized coffee is a dead giveaway for a hangover, but I bet you look pretty good when you’re not nursing the side effects of drinking a fish-tank full of vodka,” the guy says, winking again, and Harry can’t help but to smile back. “So, what’s your name?”

“Harry.”

“I’m Rider,” the guy says, holding his hand out for Harry to shake. “So, Harry, what’s with the vampire look?”

“I guess you could say I’m having a bit of a rough time at work, among other things.”

“Where do you work that’s making you look like this? You can’t be more than 23.”

“I’m 20 actually, and my job is most likely going to drive me into an early grave. It’s the family business.”

“You’re family sounds intense, man,” Rider laughs, gently nudging Harry’s shin with his boot.

“Yeah,” Harry laughs, “you can definitely say that.”

“Well, Harry, if you’re ever interested in loosening your tie a little bit, you should give me a call sometime. I’m a junior over at NYU, and I can take you out where we can drink with other people, rather than drinking by yourself in what I can only assume is a big, fancy mansion given the way you’re dressed,” Rider finishes, tapping on Harry’s Rolex.

“Oh really?” Harry asks sarcastically. “You’re gonna take me to a frat party to get drunk on cheap beer?”

“Well, I wouldn’t say a frat party is what I had in mind. More like a few bars around campus that are actually pretty decent, and you know drinking with just me would also constitute not drinking alone,” Rider leers, running his finger down Harry’s hand. “It just so happens my refrigerator is always stocked with the best beer my money can buy.”

Harry outright laughs at that, prompting Rider to lean in closer and to look up at Harry with his currently hooded green eyes. “So, what do you say? Interested in putting that phone of yours to better use than checking up on work emails on a Saturday?”

“Well, I guess drinking cheap beer with a cute guy isn’t the worst offer I’ve ever gotten,” Harry snarks, writing his number on a napkin and sliding it over to Rider.

“You flatter me,” Rider says, pocketing the napkin into his jeans. “I hate to run, but I’ll be late for my study group if I don’t. I’ll be in touch, Harry.” Rider leans down to pat Harry’s cheek and then he’s off, sending Harry a small wave before he swings open the door.

Harry follows Rider with his eyes until he can’t see him anymore, and then it’s like reality comes slamming back to him all at once. What the hell was he doing? He just flirted with some random dude and gave him his number, completely forgetting about the fact that he had a boyfriend. 

Harry buries his face in his hands, and roughly tangles his hands in his hair. He pops his head up, probably resembling a startled chipmunk, when he realizes one important detail. He gave Rider the fake number he gives to all the people he has no interest in talking to ever again, but he gives them a number anyway to prevent an exhaustingly awkward conversation. Huh, Harry thinks, it would seem his brain registered what the rest of him didn’t, and that was that he had Peter.

But, the fact that he did it all has to mean something. Harry hasn’t genuinely flirted with anyone in such a long time, but he actually found himself being charmed by the guy, and wanting to keep talking to him. He could attribute it to some stupid vengeful plot since he was still angry with Peter, but that wasn’t it. He’s been angry with Peter plenty of times before this, and he never found a need to go out with some random dude in a coffee shop.

The truth was he enjoyed that attention he got. He liked the fact that they could have a conversation without the threat of Rider having to run off the minute he heard sirens. It felt normal and carefree, and Harry missed feeling like that. He could use a little carefree in his life to balance out the enormous amounts of stress, but he would never get that with Peter. Loving Spider-Man didn’t exactly lead to a life free of worry. 

Harry drains the remainder of his latte, and orders another one to go. He walks back to the mansion in silence, and immediately heads straight for his bed the moment he walks through the front door. Maybe a short nap will help clear his head, and rid him of the desire of doing what he’s thinking of doing.

\----------

Harry slowly opens his bleary eyes when he hears something crash on the floor in the living room. He looks over at the clock on the wall and it reads 5:15 p.m. Well, it looks like his nap wasn’t so short after all. He rubs his face a few times across his pillow, and he finally heaves himself up into a sitting position, exerting much more effort than usual. 

Harry walks out into the living room and finds Peter with a broom and dustpan, sweeping up the shards of glass that used to belong to something of his. He can’t really tell what it used to resemble.

“Sorry, sorry,” Peter says, “I didn’t mean to wake you up. I was just putting my book back on the shelf, and I knocked over that glass giraffe Felicia got us when she went to South Africa.”

“It was ugly anyway,” Harry mumbles, plopping himself down on the couch. Peter snorts, shaking his head in the process, and dumps the jagged glass in the small trashcan.

“So, what time did you get in?” Harry asks, eyeing Peter warily.

“About two hours ago. I tried dozing off for a bit, but I was getting restless, so I decided to read instead.” Peter hesitantly walks towards Harry, and he sits down on the opposite end of the couch. Harry rolls his eyes, because really? They’ve sunken so low that now they’re walking on eggshells around each other?

“So, what did you do today?” Peter mumbles, twining his fingers together, a nervous habit Harry’s known about since they were seven-years-old.

“I got some coffee this morning to cure my massive hangover that was prompted by a fucking disastrous week at work,” Harry bites out. “Then I came back here and fell asleep for about six hours, and I’m still fucking tired.”

Peter looks stunned, and just a bit ashamed, because he had no idea any of it was happening. “I’m sorry, Harry. Is there, umm, anything I can do?”

“Nope,” Harry laughs out bitterly. All he wanted was for Peter to have been there these past few days, but he wasn’t. 

“Look, I’m sorry I haven’t been around lately, Harry, but-,” Peter says, until Harry interrupts the apology he’s heard a hundred times.

“You’re always sorry, Peter.”

“Harry, I-,” Peter starts to say, scooting closer to Harry, but the chime of his phone stops him. Peter sighs, gathers up his phone from the coffee table, and sighs again. “The Beetle’s terrorizing the streets of Brooklyn again. We’ll continue this later, okay?”

“I gave some guy I met at the coffee shop my phone number today,” Harry says, while Peter starts stripping off his shirt to reveal his suit underneath.

Peter freezes with his arms above his head and drops his shirt distractedly on the carpet. “You did what?”

“He started flirting with me, and he asked for my number, so I gave it to him,” Harry says, crossing his arms in front of him and cocking his hip to the side. He thinks it’s best not to mention that he gave the guy a fake number.

“Oh,” Peter mumbles, physically deflating in front of Harry. “Did you, uh, flirt back?”

“I did,” Harry says, glaring at Peter’s shrinking form. “I wanted to.”

“That’s fucking great, Harry,” Peter laughs. “Did it ever enter into your mind that you had a boyfriend, and you probably shouldn’t be handing out your number to random dudes?”

“No. However, the fact that I have a boyfriend who is never around, and who I haven’t spent any substantial amount of time with in the last three months, did enter my mind.”

“So, how long have you been doing this behind my back?”

“Fuck you, Parker! Oh, and spare me the false indignation,” Harry snaps. “Also, for your information this is the first guy I’ve flirted with in years, and I’m telling you about it.”

“Harry,” Peter exhales, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Why couldn’t you have tal-”

“Don’t you dare say I should have talked to you about this,” Harry bites out, rounding on Peter. “When exactly would I have done that? In between you darting in and out of our bedroom window?”

“Yes!” Peter exclaims, throwing his hands up in the air. He has to know how irrational he’s being about this, Harry thinks, because he knows just as well as Harry does that he hasn’t been around enough to sit down and have a heart-to-heart.

“Why are you even telling me this, Harry?” Peter asks, putting his hand on his hips. “To hurt me?”

“I’m telling you because I can’t do this anymore, Pete.” Yeah, sleeping didn’t do anything to clear his mind. The anger that has been boiling up within him for months is all he can see right now.

“Harry, what are you sa-”

“I’m done!” Harry shouts, running a shaky hand through his hair. “I’m done with you, Peter!”

Peter looks like Harry just punched him in the stomach. He doubles over, puts his hands on his knees, and he’s breathing pretty hard for a guy who has been standing in the same place for the past few minutes.

“You’re breaking up with me?” Peter asks, cocking his head up to look at Harry.

“Yes,” Harry says blankly, and Peter flinches. His tone sounds cold even to his own ears. “I mean, can you blame me?”

“Harry, okay,” Peter says, straightening up and extending his arms out in a placating motion. “I know I haven’t been around much lately, but the way I feel about you hasn’t changed. I love you.”

“Do you? Maybe I was just convenient, Peter.” Harry’s being a bastard. He knows that. But his rage is fogging up any part of his brain that is telling him he’s going to regret all this later.

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“It means that ever since you got bitten by that stupid spider when we were 16, you’ve only trusted two people with your little secret, me and Gwen. You tried dating Gwen for a few months, and when that didn’t work out, maybe I was just the next logical choice.”

“Are you fucking serious right now?” Peter looks like smoke is going to start shooting out of his ears any second. “So, you’re telling me that I’ve spent the last four years with you because you were convenient?”

“That’s exactly what I’m saying!” Harry yells, pounding on Peter’s chest with his fists.

“You’re a fucking asshole, Osborn. Have fun fucking your way through Manhattan,” Peter whispers, pushing Harry away, and resuming his task of stripping off his clothes.

“Have fun being alone for the rest of your life,” Harry shoots out, crossing his arms again.

“I can’t deal with this shit right now,” Peter sighs, picking up his mask from wherever he dropped it on his way in. “I gotta-”

“Go? Yeah, you do such a good impression of all the people in your life who left you.” That’s the nail in the proverbial coffin Harry has buried himself in. Peter doesn’t even look angry anymore, he just looks so fucking sad. Peter sniffs once, and Harry can see how tightly he’s clenching his jaw. A move they’ve both perfected over the years when they’re trying their damndest not to cry. 

Harry sits on the edge of his desk, refusing to look at Peter. A carbon copy of what he looked like the night Peter broke another date. Out of the corner of his eye he sees Peter slip on the mask, and the closer he gets to the window, the more he whips his head back and forth towards Harry. Harry knows what he’s waiting for, but he’s not going to give it to him.

He doesn’t tell Peter to be careful, or to stay safe, or to come back home, or that he loves him. He doesn’t say anything at all. Peter swings out the window, and Harry hurls a glass against the wall. 

\----------

The only communication Harry has with Peter in the days following their break-up is a single text, informing Peter that he can pick up his stuff any time during the day because that will guarantee Harry won’t be home.

Now that Harry’s anger has ebbed a bit, he kind of regrets some of the things he said to Peter. He doesn’t regret breaking up with him, but he didn’t have to take things so far. However, Harry Osborn has always been a prideful son of a bitch, he isn’t Norman Osborn’s son for nothing, so he’s not about to apologize. Whenever he and Peter had arguments, whether when they were in a relationship or when they were two kids running around on the playground, Peter would always be the first to say he was sorry, even if he really wasn’t the one who should have been apologizing in the first place. So, he’s not going to break his streak now.

Things don’t get better at Oscorp, and the board seems to be getting more vindictive by the day, but now Harry finds solace in flirting with anyone who peaks his interest, and he finds satisfaction in the endless parade of warm bodies occupying his bed. He never sees anyone more than once. He doesn’t want another relationship—he’s just looking for distractions.

Two months pass, and he hasn’t heard a word from Peter. Harry doesn’t let himself think about him, about how much he misses him, or about the fact that he not only succeeded in screwing up their relationship, but their friendship as well. 

One day when Harry is rummaging around in his drawers for a tie he knows he has, he finds one of Peter’s t-shirts that he must have forgotten to take. It was one of Peter’s favorites. He constantly slept in it, and Harry had borrowed it a few times as well.

Harry hesitantly trails his fingers along the faded logo in the front, and he’s almost afraid to touch it. He feels like he would be disturbing it somehow. He takes the shirt out of the drawer slowly, and he gently shakes it out in front of him. He distractedly sits on the floor, and scoots backwards so his back is resting on the bed. Harry presses his nose into the fabric and inhales. It still has Peter’s scent all over it. There’s a whiff of drugstore laundry detergent that Peter insisted on having because it reminded him of Aunt May, a hint of sweat, and a bit of cheap cologne. 

Harry buries his face in the t-shirt for a few minutes, finding himself physically incapable of lifting his head, and he grips the fabric tightly in his hands. Eventually, he starts crying into the shirt, the cotton muffling his sobs. 

He didn’t cry the day he broke up with Peter. He didn’t cry when he came home one night to find the closet emptied and that any visible traces of Peter had vanished. He didn’t cry the day he realized how many Peter look-alikes he had been bringing into his bed, because really, how pathetic was he? So, maybe it only made sense that he would start crying now, holding the beloved t-shirt of the boy he never allows himself to miss.

After that, Harry just does more. He does more drugs, drinks more alcohol, and fucks more people. He realizes he’s becoming self-destructive and reckless and all those other things everyone had always accused him of being, but he doesn’t care. And that’s the point of all this. He doesn’t want to care. It hurts too damn much.

\----------

Harry paces back and forth in his office, a glass full of scotch in one hand, and a stack of financial reports in the other. Oscorp’s stock has been plummeting because the company as a whole has been lagging behind in the medical innovation race, and he doesn’t know what the fuck to do about it. He lets himself think for a bit that maybe all those old geezers on the board were doing him a favor by trying to get him booted as CEO.

He places the glass and the papers on his desk, and drops himself unceremoniously into his chair. He swivels around for a bit, then tips his head back and closes his eyes. It’s not normal to be this stressed out at 20 is it?

He has the television on in the background, and he whips his head up from its resting position when he hears the program being interrupted by a local breaking news report.

“The Beetle’s at it again. This time he’s propped himself up on this building behind me, on the corner of 5th and 30th,” the reporter says. “He’s aiming miniature mechanical beetles at anyone who comes within a 5-foot radius of him. The beetles are said to have the ability to electrocute someone, and then they release a sleeping gas to render the victim unconscious. Police are trying to apprehend him, but they have been unsuccessful so far.” 

The scene behind the reporter looks insane. People are being rushed into ambulances, cops are running around in a frenzy, and clouds of smoke are blooming up from the streets, most likely courtesy of The Beetle’s lasers and energy beam gauntlets. Suddenly, the reporter looks up, and there’s a hint of a smile on her face. “Well New York City, it looks like the boys in blue have just been given a little help.”

Harry sees Peter fly across the screen, dropping himself into the chaotic fold. Harry contemplates turning off the TV. He’s been able to avoid seeing or hearing anything about Spider-Man’s latest adventures so far, which is tough as hell to do when you lived in Manhattan, but he can’t bring himself to do it. He’s glued to the screen.

Both the reporter and cameraman rush a few feet closer to the action, no doubt wanting to get the best shot. Harry can’t make out anything though. He just sees a blur of red, blue, and purple, smashing each other into brick walls, lampposts, and cars. It’s starting to look like a shitty found footage movie.

Then, Harry sees The Beetle fly himself and Peter up to the top of the building, and he’s holding Peter’s throat in a death grip. A few seconds later, The Beetle sends Peter sailing down 30 stories, leaving him to land on the hood of a car parked below. Harry swears the sound of crushing metal just reverberated throughout the city.

“Come on, come on, Peter,” Harry finds himself saying towards the television screen. “Get up, Pete. Come on.”

Harry looks on as Peter’s figure remains unmoving, and no one seems to be rushing to help him. The camera cuts away from Peter’s still form and Harry lets out an incoherent scream. These bastards choose to pan away now? He needs to see for himself that Peter’s okay after being dangled from and thrown off a fucking building.

Harry starts pacing again, and he yanks at his hair frantically. What the hell is he gonna do from here though? Peter won’t come to him if he’s hurt. They’re not together anymore, and they’re not even really friends anymore. Harry doesn’t get to be the one to patch him up when he’s hurt. He could send Peter a text or give him a call, but both of those things can go unanswered, and if Peter really is seriously hurt, he suspects answering a ringing telephone might be the last thing on his mind.

Suddenly it hits him, Gwen! Peter will go to her. Harry wears holes in his carpet for about 20 minutes, having an argument with himself about the pros and cons of banging on Gwen Stacy’s door at 12:30 in the morning. He hasn’t spoken to her since he and Peter broke up, and there’s the whole bigger problem of Peter not wanting to see him that he’ll have to deal with, but he finally decides, fuck it. He starts running towards the girl’s apartment, which luckily isn’t too far away from his own home, and gets there in record time.

He knocks on the door with a shaky hand and tries to regain control of his breathing. Showing up looking crazy, sweaty, and panting probably isn’t the best way to greet her.

“Is he here?” Harry blurts out as soon as Gwen opens the door, and he shoulders past her into the living room.

“Yes,” Gwen says, closing the door behind her and cocking her eyebrow up. “And please come in.”

“Sorry,” Harry mumbles, wiping sweat off his forehead with a rough swipe from the back of his hand. “It’s just that I saw what happened to Peter on the news, and I needed to make sure he was alright.”

Gwen nods in understanding, but she seems a little skittish around him. Maybe she feels like she’s betraying Peter by letting him stay. 

“He’s okay, Harry,” Gwen whispers, heading towards the kitchen and filling up a glass of water. “It was nothing I couldn’t handle. I cleaned up his scrapes and bruises, and gave him some morphine for the pain, since The Beetle sent various electric shocks through his body and slammed him into a car, so he’s knocked out for the next few hours for sure. Oh, and don’t ask me where I got the morphine from,” she finishes, handing Harry the glass.

Harry sits down on the armchair, and he gulps down the water. “Can I see him?” Harry asks, lifting his head up so he can look at Gwen.

“Harry, I don’t thi-”

“Gwen, please,” Harry begs, getting up from his sitting position and walking closer to her. “I know Peter told you what went on between us, and I know how shitty it ended, but I just-, I really-, I just want to see him. Please.”

“Okay,” Gwen nods once, grabbing Harry’s wrist and guiding him towards her bedroom. The room is dark, save for a soft, yellow light emitting from a small lamp on the bedside table. He immediately walks over to where Peter’s laying, and he doesn’t do much more than look. His eyes scan over Peter’s body, taking survey of the injuries. There’s a piece of gauze taped to his forehead with a pool of blood already seeping through. There’s a deep gash running along his chin, but Harry’s heart stops when he sees Peter’s chest. It looks like one huge bruise. Purple and green hues are mottling his skin, interspersed with angry scrapes of red.

Harry lets out a sharp exhale and plants himself down, hard, on the chair by the bed. “It’s worse than it looks, Harry,” Gwen says, coming up beside him. Harry wants to snap at her, and ask her how she could possibly know something like that. He wasn’t aware of when the title of doctor got attached to her name, but he bites his tongue. She’s doing Peter, and by association him, a huge favor, and Gwen’s smarter than both of them combined. She could probably open up a practice tomorrow if she wanted to.

Harry nods, not because he agrees, but because he doesn’t know what else to do. “Can I stay here with him until he wakes up?” Harry asks, hesitantly placing his hand next to Peter’s, but he doesn’t make an attempt to grab it.

“Are you sure that’s a good idea?” Gwen asks, flicking her eyes between Harry and Peter’s unconscious body.

“No. It’s probably a horrible idea,” Harry admits, “but I need to be here.”

“Okay,” Gwen whispers, walking towards her closet to retrieve a blanket. She drapes the blanket over Harry’s shoulders, and Harry slumps down in the chair. She gives his shoulder a gentle squeeze, and then she walks out, closing the door behind her.

After five minutes of boring holes into Peter’s torso, Harry moves to tangle his fingers with Peter’s. It feels so familiar, like he was meant to hold Peter’s hand for the rest of his life, and a small lump forms in his throat.

“Pete,” Harry says, clearing his throat. “I know you can’t exactly hear me right now since you’ve got some pretty powerful shit flowing through your veins, courtesy of Miss Stacy, but I just wanted to let you know that I’m here, okay Pete? I’m here, and I’m going to stay here until you open your eyes, which you better do, or so help me, Peter, I will kill you myself.” 

Harry reaches up his left hand to stroke softly through Peter’s thick hair, and then he brushes his thumb across a cut above Peter’s eyebrow. “Please, Peter.” Harry doesn’t know what he’s saying please for. Please open your eyes, please don’t be pissed at me when you wake up and see me sitting here, please forgive me for all the shit I said to you, or please believe me when I say that that’s not how I wanted it to end between us?

He kisses Peter’s hand a few times, and then he leans back into the chair, wrapping the blanket securely around himself. He knows there’s no chance in hell of him sleeping, so he hangs both his legs over the arm of the chair, and makes himself comfortable for a long night of watching over Peter Parker.

The sun starts to peek its way from underneath the horizon, and Harry’s eyes are burning from lack of sleep, but he gets rewarded for it when Peter’s eyes blink open. Harry straightens himself up in the chair, and Peter slowly moves his head towards the noise.

“Harry?” Peter whispers in a scratchy voice. “Harry?”

“Peter,” Harry sighs, surging forward to latch his arms around Peter’s neck. Peter emits a small “oof” sound, but he just grabs onto Harry’s back that much tighter. “Ugh, thank god, Peter.”

Peter buries his face in Harry’s neck, softly running his hands up and down his back, and he rocks them from side to side. Harry tightens his own grip, and then Peter freezes. He lifts his head and gently pushes Harry away. 

“Umm, sorry,” Peter murmurs, “I shouldn’t have done that.”

“Peter, it’s okay,” Harry says, attempting to reach for Peter’s arm, but he pulls it away. “I did hug you first, you know?”

Peter doesn’t say anything, he just scoots himself up into a sitting position, leaning on Gwen’s sea of pillows, and brings the comforter higher up his body. “Yeah,” Peter coughs out. “We just got carried away is all.”

Harry shakes his head at him and sighs. He reaches up his thumb to brush along a cut on Peter’s cheek, but Peter moves his head before his finger can connect. “Sorry, does it hurt?” Harry asks, inching the chair closer to the bed.

“No,” Peter says, averting his gaze towards the bed.

“Then what is it?”

“Do you have any idea how hard it is to be around you right now?” Peter asks, and Harry feels like he’s been slapped. He knew this wasn’t going to be easy given their recent history, but did Peter really hate him that much that he couldn’t even stand to be in the same room as him?

“Peter, I’m sorry, okay?” Harry pleads. “I’m sorry for some of the shit I said to you. I was just mad.”

“I know,” Peter mumbles, dragging his fingers across the blanket. “We both were, but that’s not it.”

“Then what is it, Pete?”

“It just hurts too fucking much, okay?” Peter snaps, swinging his head toward the window and completely facing away from Harry. “I’m still in love with you,” he whispers, wiping his thumb quickly across the bottom of his right eye. “I’m still so fucking in love with you, and I wish I could stop, but I can’t!”

“Peter,” Harry sighs, swiping his hand roughly across his mouth. “I still love you too. But we-, can we just-, can we just try-, can we try to be friends?” he finally stutters out. “I mean we were best friends for 12 years before we became a couple. I miss that.”

Harry hears Peter audibly swallow, but he doesn’t respond in any way. “Come on, Pete, what are you thinking?” Harry asks, standing up from the chair, but not moving any farther than that.

“I think I need some time,” Peter whispers, still refusing to look at Harry. “I need time to work out the shit in my head, and then maybe I can think about us being friends again.”

Maybe they can be friends again? Harry hangs his head, and he feels like crying, because god, how badly did they screw themselves up? He walks towards the door, and right as he’s about to leave, Peter stops him.

“Harry,” Peter says, this time staring right at him. “I miss it too.” 

\----------

A few months pass, and Harry and Peter still aren’t any closer to rekindling the friendship they lost. It hurts, it really fucking hurts, but Harry can’t do anything about it until Peter wants to. So, he focuses on work despite his hatred for it, he continues the drinking and the smoking, but the number of strangers he has in his bed has decreased significantly. He still fucks random people, sure, but not nearly as many as he did in the months after he broke up with Peter. After that night at Gwen’s, Harry can’t find it within himself to keep up that part of his self-destructive path.

He wants to call Peter so badly sometimes he has to literally chuck his phone against the wall to stop himself. Is that stupid? Sure. But, is it necessary? He likes to think so. He’ll need more than two hands to count the number of phones he’s broken. But, he stops himself because Peter made it abundantly clear that he doesn’t want anything to do with him until he’s good and ready. Whether he’ll be ready in a few more months, a year, or perhaps never, Harry doesn’t know, but he hates not being able to do anything.

Harry’s flipping through some Bob Dylan records on a Saturday afternoon at the bookstore by his office because he needed to get out of there. He had been spending more time sleeping in his desk chair than in his own bed. He starts making his way over to the Rolling Stones collection when a shock of brown hair that he would know anywhere stops him in his tracks. Peter. 

“Pete,” Harry stutters out after a few minutes of gawking. 

“Harry,” Peter replies, and god, Harry missed that voice. Peter’s eyes look a bit wider than usual, and he stumbles towards Harry over from the bookshelf he was standing in front of. “How have you been?”

“Well, work still sucks, but the board has backed off now that they realize I’ve lasted this long,” Harry says, running a hand through his hair. “You know, they’re ancient, they tire easily.” 

Peter snorts, shaking his head, and looks down at Harry with a smile. He hasn’t seen that in a while, and Harry takes a few steps back before he does something really stupid. “So, umm, Pete, are you busy right now?”

“Nope,” Peter whispers, directing his gaze towards the large windows covering the front of the shop. 

“That’s good,” Harry says, stuffing his hands in his pocket. “Do you, uh, do you want to go somewhere? With, umm, uh, me?” Harry is positive he sounds like a complete idiot, but in all fairness, he was kind of blindsided by this rare Peter sighting.

“Uh, I-,” Peter starts to say.

“Come on, it’s a nice day outside,” Harry rushes out, before Peter can refuse. “We can go down to the river, just catch up a bit, you know?”

“Uh, sure,” Peter says nervously, biting down on his lip.

They pretty much make their way down to the Hudson River in silence, sans for a couple of small talk questions like, ‘how’s your aunt,’ and ‘how’s Felicia doing.’ They start walking along the railing that lines the river, and Peter’s kicking his feet up in typical Peter fashion, in the way that still makes him look like a boy at 20-years-old. Harry sends a small smile Peter’s way that he doesn’t see, and leans against the railing in an attempt to halt their wordless walk.

“So, Pete, how’s everything going with, you know,” Harry says, not needing to really voice what he’s asking about. Spider-Man. The source of all their troubles.

“Better actually,” Peter sighs, bowing his head and kicking a can on the ground. “I kind of set some, I guess you could say, boundaries for myself.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, I just decided that I don’t need to be responding to every call on the police scanner and breaking news updates on my phone. The police are pretty capable of handling some disturbances without me,” Peter says, running his hand over the back of his head. “If I’m already out, then of course I’ll help, but given the number of human science experiments gone array that have taken up residence in New York, I just decided that maybe my abilities would be better suited to stopping them.”

“Wow,” Harry breathes out, sounding genuinely shocked, because he is. Harry and Gwen’s pleadings over the years have finally made their way into Peter’s thick skull. “I think that’s great, Peter.”

“Yeah,” Peter mumbles, twining his fingers together. “I also figured that if I kept going like I was, one day I would collapse from exhaustion and not get up,” Peter says in a self-deprecating laugh.

“Pete-”

“I’m sorry, Harry,” Peter whispers, looking down at him with apologetic eyes. “I know it wasn’t easy being with me, and I can’t even begin to imagine what it was like for you all those years we were together, but I’m trying,” Peter says clearing his throat. “I’m trying to do better by the people I really care about.”

Harry doesn’t know what to say, but his heart does feel like it’s going to beat right out of his chest. “I promise I’ll try to be a better friend,” Peter says with smiling eyes.

“So, does that mean we’re friends again?” Harry asks, smirking up at Peter.

“Yea, why not?” Peter laughs, reaching out to grasp Harry’s shoulder and shakes it a bit.

“I appreciate the enthusiasm, Parker,” Harry quips, shrugging off Peter’s hand playfully.

They continue walking for another half an hour, buying ice cream from a cart, and talking about nothing. They exchange random stories, share funny experiences they’ve had in the last few months, and Harry feels lighter than he has in such a long time. 

“So, Pete,” Harry says, slowing down to sit on a bench. “Has anyone caught your eye?” He doesn’t know why he asks, he knows it’ll just tear him up if Peter says yes, but Harry’s not really known for thinking before he speaks.

Peter pauses for a bit, and then sighs, looking down at Harry with confusion. “You really want to know that, Harry?”

“Yes.”

“Well, no,” Peter murmurs, “nobody has. There was a girl in my psychology class that asked me out, as well as a guy from my biology class, but I turned them both down.”

“Why?”

“You know why, Osborn. I can’t be with someone in name only. It’s not fair to them,” Peter says, flicking his eyes rapidly across Harry’s face. “Besides, being who I am,” Peter laughs sadly, running a hand down his face, “I’m not meant to be with anyone.”

“Peter,” Harry sighs, getting up from the bench and stepping closer to him. “I didn’t mean what I said, okay? I was just pissed. You’re not gonna be alone for the rest of your life.”

“You might not have meant it, Harry, but you were right.”

“No, I wasn-”

“Yes, you were,” Peter says sharply, but his eyes are glistening. “I can’t do what I did to you to someone else. Nobody deserves that.”

“Peter-”

“So,” Peter cuts him off, “what about you? Anyone you’re interested in?”

Hell, how does he answer that? Well, Pete, I’m not interested in anyone, but I was fucking my way through Manhattan for a while there just like you said I would. “No,” Harry says uncomfortably. “I, uh, was with a few people, but they were only one night deals.”

Peter nods in response, worrying his bottom lip between his teeth, and Harry just wants to reach up, grab his face, and kiss him. Being this close to Peter is a bad fucking idea.

“Well, don’t settle, okay?” Peter says, staring at Harry with an intense gaze. “You deserve someone great, even if you don’t think you do,” Peter finishes with a pinched smile.

“So do you, Pete” Harry says, and Peter shakes his head.

“Well, umm, I better go,” Peter mumbles, hooking his thumbs under his backpack straps. “I promised Aunt May I would pick up her car from the repair shop today, so I better head over,” Peter says, checking the time on his phone distractedly. “It was good to see you.”

“You too, Pete.”

“Take care of yourself, Harry,” Peter says, already walking away, and this is starting to weirdly feel like a goodbye. 

Before Peter can walk away fully, Harry wraps an arm around his back, pulling him in for a hug. Peter hesitates for a second before draping his own arms around Harry’s neck. Harry reaches up to run his fingers through Peter’s hair and buries his face in the warm expanse of Peter’s neck, inhaling his scent. It might be bordering on this side of too intimate for a hug between friends, but they’ve always been too intimate with each other. They never cared about things like personal space, even before they became a couple. Peter runs his right hand down Harry’s back a few times, and then gently pulls away. He feels Peter sigh and take a few steps back. 

“I’ll see you soon, okay? Pete?” Harry asks, ducking his head to meet Peter’s gaze. “Pete?”

“Yeah, Harry,” Peter finally says with a smile. “I’ll see you soon.” He throws a small wave over his shoulder, and then he’s gone. Maybe he should have made Peter promise.

\----------

Going back to the office now is a lost cause, and it’s just as well, because his concentration is shot. Peter always has this uncanny ability to knock him on his ass when Harry’s least expecting it. God, why does his mind have to be annoying and actually think?

He can’t get Peter out of his fucking head. He can’t get his stupid fucking face out of his stupid fucking head.

He misses Peter with an ache he’s never felt before. Not when Flash Thompson kicked him in the gut with his steel-toed boot when they were in middle school, not when he got appendicitis when he was 13, not when his father dismissed him as a disappointment for the hundredth time, and certainly not when his father died. Harry has never felt this way about anything or anyone, and it’s making him uneasy. He needs a fucking drink.

Harry pours some whiskey into a glass with shaky hands, and he’s hoping it’ll calm the knots in his stomach and the shallow pain in his chest. All those months of not letting himself actually miss Peter, and it all comes crashing down on him after one afternoon with the kid.

Harry misses everything about him. He misses Peter’s tumbleweed hair that’s perpetually allergic to combs. He misses the way Peter nibbles on the edge of his pencil when he’s concentrating. He misses Peter’s wiry glasses that he still wears when he’s reading even though he clearly doesn’t need them anymore. He misses the way Peter snorts out of nowhere when he’s laughing really hard, even though Harry constantly makes fun of him for it. He misses the way he himself crumbles with just one look at Peter’s doe eyes.

God, he misses how Peter’s body feels against his own when Peter would wrap him up in a long, warm hug when either of them had a particularly horrible day. He misses the way Peter would bite down on his bottom lip gently, and then drag it out a bit when they kissed. He misses the way Peter would pull him over as much as he could when they slept, so they barely had any space between them. He misses those times when he would catch Peter staring at him like he hung the moon.

Harry bangs his head against the nearest wall repeatedly. He’s opened the floodgates, and there’s no stopping it. What the hell is he supposed to do? He knows what he wants to do, but should he? 

He knows they broke up for good reasons, but he can’t even remember them right now. He just wants Peter. He thinks about what it would be like to see Peter with someone else, and it makes his damn skin crawl. He wouldn’t be able to handle it. He knows that for sure. 

But he’s not doing what he’s thinking of doing because he doesn’t want to see Peter with anyone else, it’s because he can’t see himself with anyone else. Peter has always been it for him, and he’s known that for longer than he’d care to admit to himself. He vaguely feels like his epiphany should be accompanied by harp music or sunshine beaming through his window, but none of that happens.

Harry stumbles over to his cell phone on the bedside table, and he dials Peter’s number before he can talk himself out of it. He hopes that Peter will answer and that he’s not off swinging around the city. He strains his other ear so he can hear if there are any explosions going off outside.

“Harry,” Peter answers groggily, and geez was Peter really sleeping at 8 o’clock at night?

“Hey, Pete,” Harry replies, biting on his thumbnail. “Sorry to wake you, but, umm, do you think you can come over for a bit?”

“Harry, are you okay?” Peter asks, sounding suddenly alert.

“Yea, Pete, I just want to see you,” Harry says, trying and failing to sound normal. His voice sounds higher than usual and a tad erratic because he just wants Peter here right now.

“Harry, you’re kind of freaking me out man. Are you hurt?” Peter asks frantically, and Harry can hear some rustling in the background. Peter’s probably already reaching for his suit.

“No, Pete. I swear I’m fine. Will you just please come over?”

“I’ll be right there,” Peter responds warily, hanging up after a few seconds of silence.

Harry walks over to the bathroom to splash some cold water on his face. He brushes his teeth and fusses with his hair. Then, he leans on the sink and tries to calm himself down. He doesn’t want to start this night looking and acting like a rabid poodle.

“Harry,” Peter calls out ten minutes later, and yeah, he definitely used his webshooters to get him here.

“I’ll be right there,” Harry yells back, giving himself one last look in the mirror before walking out to the living room.

“Hi, Peter,” Harry says, closing his bedroom door behind him.

“Hey, are you okay?” Peter asks, eyes scanning Harry’s body for any possible harm.

“I’m fine.”

“Okay,” Peter says confused, looking at him nervously. “So, what’s up?”

“I miss you, Pete,” Harry whispers, stuffing his hands in his pockets and walking towards Peter, stopping a few inches in front of him.

Peter looks a bit startled at the admission. He came over preparing to have to fight someone off, and now this is happening. “I miss you too,” Peter sighs after shaking off his surprise, swiping his hand through his hair. “Harry, I’m sor-”

“No, Peter. Stop apologizing.”

“But, I-”

“No, seriously, Pete,” Harry rushes out. “You’ve apologized enough. It’s my turn.”

“Harry, you don’t ha-”

“Yes, I do,” Harry mumbles, running his gaze across Peter’s face. “I do. I’m sorry for all the shit that I said to you, and for accusing you of not loving me, because I know you do. I know it. And I’m sorry for making you think that what happened between us was all your fault, when it wasn’t. It really fucking wasn’t. It was my fault too.”

“Okay,” Peter nods, not really looking like he believes him. “Is that, umm, is that what you called me over here to say?”

“No,” Harry whispers, stepping even closer. “I wanted to ask you if you, uh, if you wanted to get back together with me?”

Peter lurches back like he just got punched in the face. “I’m sorry,” Peter murmurs, looking like a deer caught in the headlights. “What did you say?”

“I said, do you want to get back together with me?”

“Okay, yeah, I think I missed something,” Peter says, grabbing at his hair and his clothes as though they would physically tether him to this bizarre conversation.

“I miss you, Peter,” Harry says once more. “I miss you so fucking much. I know we had our problems before, but I think we can work passed all that.”

“Harry,” Peter says, shaking his head and pinching the bridge of his nose. “It’s not like we argued over whose turn it was to pick up the dry cleaning or our bank accounts. I mean, we had real issues between us.”

“I know, but things are different now. We’re different now,” Harry sighs. “Well, you seem to be, and I can try to be.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well you told me this afternoon that you’re not prowling the streets of New York City as much now that you’ve, uh, narrowed your focus,” Harry replies, trying to catch Peter’s eyes. “And, you know, things have calmed down at Oscorp, and I was thinking about hiring a few extra people to lighten my workload. I figured working myself into an early grave probably wasn’t the best use of my time.”

“Are you sure?” Peter asks, finally looking at Harry. 

“Definitely.”

“Are you really sure, though? Because I can’t do this again if we’re just gonna end up right back at the place we were at a few months ago. I wouldn’t be able to handle that again,” Peter whispers.

“Peter,” Harry sighs, grabbing Peter’s face with both hands. “I love you. I love you so much it scares the shit out of me sometimes, and I don’t think, no I know,” he says fiercely, “I’ll never love anyone the way I love you. You told me not to settle, so I’m not. I want to be with you. You,” Harry says, brushing his thumb across Peter’s cheekbone, and jostling his head a few times due to his steely determination. He needs Peter to believe him.

Peter doesn’t say anything, he doesn’t even move. He’s not giving Harry any hint at all about what he’s thinking. “Peter?”

“I just really need you to be sure, Harry,” Peter mumbles, reaching out his hand to grasp Harry’s hip, but he pulls it away before he can. “I need you to be sure that you can deal with me having to break our dates every once in a while. I need you to be sure that you can handle me coming home at 4 a.m. bleeding on your expensive carpet that you can only find in Italy. I need you to be sure that you can handle seeing me looking like a crazed coffee addict because I’m cramming for a test at school,” Peter says, bowing his head. “I need you to be sure that this is what you really want. That all of it is what you really want.”

“Peter,” Harry says, hooking a finger underneath Peter’s chin and lifting his head. “I’m positive. I want all of you.”

“God,” Peter exhales, surging forward, yanking Harry’s face towards his, and pulling him into a rough kiss. It’s all teeth and tongue, and it actually kind of fucking hurts, but neither of them care. “I love you so much,” Peter says between kisses, tangling his fingers in Harry’s hair. Harry wants to sob into Peter’s mouth because he thought he would never be able to do this again. But, thankfully he doesn’t, much to the delight of that part of him that still registers embarrassment. 

Peter kisses him once, twice, three more times, and then he presses their foreheads together. “So, is that a yes?” Harry teases, licking his lips and looking up into Peter’ lustful gaze.

“That’s a yes, Osborn,” Peter laughs, running his hands up Harry’s sides. 

“Good,” Harry says, placing open-mouthed kisses along Peter’s neck. He loves the way Peter feels when he’s shivering underneath his touch.

He pulls on Peter’s jacket, dragging them towards his—scratch that—their bedroom, but Peter stops their progress before they reach the door. “How about we go out on a date?” Peter asks, yanking Harry’s head away from his neck so he can look at him. “I mean I kind of owe you one, or twenty.”

“Ha ha,” Harry deadpans, wrapping his arms around Peter’s waist. “We can go out later. Right now we have a date with the bed, and the shower, and that couch behind you, and my desk, and if we’re feeling really daring, the balcony.”

“Unbelievable,” Peter laughs, finally getting the door open, and dropping them both on the bed in a tangle of limbs.


End file.
